Only the Internet can sell me wonderful, highly potent magic drugs that cannot be found anywhere else. People universally despise and instantly throw away spam emails advertising popular drugs such as Viagra and that one pill which makes you think you have ghosts inside your head trying to escape. However, people absolutely love and cherish spam emails advertising "_V!AGRA_" which is apparently just like Viagra only it's a lot, lot better and can be used in conjunction with the miracle medical drugs "AMB-!EN" and ">>S0N_ATA

My girlfriend is a sadistic, cruel, pathological liar who I can never trust with anything more important than a napkin used to wipe dog snot off the kitchen window. She always claimed my penis was big enough to satisfy her, but my incoming email continuously proves her wrong, explaining that I'm way too small and she secretly wants me to grow a penis so monstrously large that upon ejaculating, it does more damage than catching a load of buckshot in your face from a double-barreled shotgun three inches away. One day I attempted to confront her about these falsehoods she was using to poison my mind and she responded by feigning ignorance. "What emails are you talking about? I never sent you anything of the sort!" I confidently pointed her in the direction of my inbox, and after a few clicks she replied, "honey, those are spam messages from accounts named "[email protected]" I called her a liar and stated that if you read something on the Internet then it must be true. That's when she suddenly became "clumsy" and accidentally fell down the stairs. It also explains why she has to now wear the giant dark aviator sunglasses even at night; she wants to be a jet pilot like Clint Eastwood in the movie "Firefox" where he had to steal a Russian military prototype jet which flew so fast that it traveled through time and made Eastwood age 40 years for every 40 minutes spent in it.

No matter what home mortgage rates established banks offer you, companies on the Internet can ALWAYS beat them. Sure, my current interest rate of 6.5% may seem decent enough to me, but a rate of 000.2% is infinitely better and will save me tons of headaches and cash, which I can use to build that swamp monster-infested moat around my house that I've been craving for so long. Well, I can use the cash to buy that, not the headaches. I don't think you can purchase anything with headaches, and if you can it's probably something you really didn't want in the first place, like more headaches. Of course these mortgages are through companies named "1-2-3 E-Z MORGAGE" and "USA AMERICAN AMERICA MORTGAGE MORTGAGE COMPANY AND AWESOME QUAKE 3 ARENA CLAN," but that just means that they "real people" companies run by real people just like you and me. Oh, and they like Quake 3: Arena, but honestly who can blame them? The game had a walking eyeball as a character!

These people don't know how to make their computer "work for them" either. Hey! Get off that computer you crippled disaster! That machine is for normal people only!

My computer does not "work for me." I was always under the false impression that whenever I turned it on and began using it, the machine was inherently working for me (except in the case of my Alienware computer which never worked for anybody anywhere). I guess I was wrong; various emails repeatedly inform me that I can somehow "put it to work" which will then begin earning me "$800 - $3,200 Mo. Part Time / $3,200 - $8,000 Mo. Full Time." Now this brings up an interesting point: what exactly are the labor laws for computers? I understand that if I were to force my computer into working full time from 9:00 AM until 5:00 PM I'd be making some serious dough, but I really feel that I can squeeze a few more hours out of my computer each day. I mean, one time I left my system on for a good three days or so, and there weren't any labor representative banging down my door and demanding I let my machine take a smoke break outside and call his kids for 10 minutes. I have absolutely no idea who would hire my computer to work for them or why'd they pay me up to $8,000 a month for the privilege, so I'm going to assume it's some kind of secret government agency who uses computers to trick terrorists into downloading Madonna's hit single "Ray of Light," which is a hit in the sense that I want to repeatedly hit her in her 90-year old face every time I hear it over mall loudspeakers.

I am the luckiest man in the history of the universe. I win, on average, at least six Internet lotteries a day despite the fact that I enter, on average, zero Internet lotteries a day. "Golden Tickets," "Prize Packages," "Lucky Lotto Picks"... I've won them all of them, sometimes in the same email message. It would appear that my decision to "never enter any Internet lottery contest" has had the side benefit of allowing me to enter every single Internet lottery contest, and I'm just tearing through these things like Sonic the Hedgehog. Well, not Sonic the Hedgehog after the third game for the Genesis since he's since been turned into an utterly pathetic, obnoxious creature thanks to the assholes at Sonic Team. Great job you jackoffs at Sega; you turned a kickass character into a whining, annoying, Generation-X "Poochie" ripoff who makes me want to break the spines of the elderly each time he screeches out a single high-pitched painful phrase. If I wanted to see some dumb fucks participate in eXXXtreme sports while being surrounded by retarded fat purple cats and horribly feminine male foxes, then I'd watch ESPN2 in the middle of a furry convention.

Dadaism is making a huge comeback. Like many god-fearing, red-blooded American citizens, I had mistakenly believed that Dadaism died off in the early 1920s. Well actually most god-fearing, red-blooded American citizens have absolutely no idea what Dadaism is and probably assume it revolves around incestuous relations with one's father. Like so many art trends, it appears as if this short-lived international nihilistic movement has resurfaced once again, bringing its art style of meaningless and completely random word combinations to the forefront of our culture. A good 60% of the "DO U LIKE CHIX WITH DIX???" emails have been replaced with ones that contain the following cutting edge art message:

rude progenitor duluth matilda motherland my ridgway turtleback belove calvin prima signpost gnaw obduracy sleigh dissemble stuff theodore potatoes levin dark electroencephalograph fray capital careful memoir

I want to print out these emails and start reading them aloud at a coffee house while somebody plays the bongos in the background and turtleneck-wearing patrons stroke their goatees with admiration. "Yardage delouse pothole anatomy dim stupendous convivial!" I would shout while waving my hand to the ceiling and stretching my mouth into a searing dagger of raw anguish. "knudson foreign farkas pornographer felice coyote fleawort natural nixon compound gigahertz attitude arterial broody insipid chasm." Then the guy with the bongos would play really fast and suddenly stop. The lights fade away and I step back to soak in the sea of applause flowing from the crowd of amazed 20-year old English majors who were so compelled by my performance that they stopped fawning over Radiohead for three minutes of their lives.

I asked my home to transform into a home-based business and it instead turned into this thing. Now my neighbors are dead and I don't know what to do except maybe try to move.

I am apparently not running my own home-based business. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me, but "horrible delusions" apparently ranks way up there at the top of the list, somewhere near "antisocial behavior" and "fear of kites." I always assumed that since I run Something Awful and it is based in my home, that I therefore run a home-based business. This doesn't seem to be the case however, as I regularly receive countless emails providing me with vague instructions to convert my entire house into some giant money-producing machine which vomits out a neverending flow of quarters like a broken slot machine possessed by the ghost of Jesus Christ. According to these helpful emails, the benefits of my own home-based business include:

"More time to spend with friends and family!" - That would be an absolutely wonderful idea if I had any friends to spend time with, or a family that didn't call me every 15 seconds of the day to ask me critically important questions regarding the type of dental floss I use.
"No Boss!" - You'll note that the "b" in "Boss" is capitalized, so I'm assuming the creator of this email is implying that my stupendous cash machine business will somehow be responsible for Bruce Springsteen's untimely demise. Perhaps my home-based business will at some point in time transform into a giant robot with laser gun arms programmed to vaporize 80s pop stars. I want it to go after Tiffany first.
"Set your own hours!" - If I am given this privilege, I will set my hours to be "zero" and then enjoy the best of both worlds: getting paid and not doing any work! I guess that's kind of like my current job except I am occasionally forced to write a rambling, uninteresting article about the various things my dogs ate the previous day.
"20 second commute!" - I tried walking from one end of my house to the other and it took less than 10 seconds. Is the author trying to imply that I'll have to work in my yard or, even worse, my neighbor's yard? I doubt they would appreciate that, especially considering I often work in only my underwear and a wrinkled t-shirt which reads, "CANCUN'S OFFICIAL PANTY INSPECTOR." I did not have to sign any paperwork or collect votes to purchase the shirt which makes me doubt the validity of this particular governmental position. My parents called once to inform me they never heard of the Cancun Panty Inspecting division of government, but I hung up on them because, by god, I'M the expert here on Cancun Panty Inspection and they have no right to lecture me about my job.
"Work with people you like, not people you have to!" - First off, nobody lives in my house except myself, and I don't even particularly like myself. I do like James Woods and would love to work with him, so I guess if I start my own home-based business, he will have to work for me. It will be great. He'll come into my office (bedroom) every morning and I'll say, "oh hell James, how are you today dear?" and look up at him with watery, puppy dog eyes filled with pure adoration and maybe bees. Then he'll break a picture frame over my head and storm off with the TV remote, and even though the barbed glass shards will cut up my arms and scar me for life, my heart will continue to long for James Woods. He'll realize we were meant to be together some day. I just know it and I'll continue to believe in this destiny despite all efforts from the parole board to convince me otherwise.

Hundreds upon thousands of attractive, horny women across the globe are just waiting to screw my brains out. These lusty babes barrage me with nonstop sexual advances, claiming they "met me on the street" and "want to get together for a date" despite the fact that their supposed mailing address is located somewhere in Desolate Wasteland, Saskatchewan. I apparently live on a very long street, one which I shall avoid walking across under the undying fear that I'll step onto the concrete and immediately be trampled to death by a swarm of sexed up Canadian refugees. I think my penis must be malfunctioning because I have yet to accept a date proposal from these seemingly hot and desperate ladies. Perhaps I'm simply playing "hard to get" and I'm waiting for one of them to send me an email message which isn't an exact copy and paste of all their previous ones. I am a very demanding man, and if so many women are fighting over my luscious doughy body, then I owe it to myself to express at least some discrimination.

As you can see, the Internet is capable of teaching us so much about life, about love, and most importantly, about ourselves. I will continue to learn and evolve as a human being as long as I have my prized Something Awful email accounts gathering over 4,000 spam messages a day, bringing me knowledge from locations all around the globe. Thank you very much, Internet!

I see Billy Dee Willams Underpants!

I'll be the first to admit, this Goldmine probably isn't for you if you've never seen a 20 sided die in your life. This one is for the geeks, nerds, and dorks out there.

Advertising in Dungeons and Dragons!? Why I never! And you'll never believe the things the Goons have come up with when gold and gems are on the line. Almost every Photoshop in the Goldmine was done during a four hour time limit. With that said, I'm putting on my funny +1 hat and giving you the following:

Is he objecting or backing up?

– Rich "Lowtax" Kyanka (@lowtax)

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